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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389239">Je ne veux pas di</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>All For The Game - Nora Sakavic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Broken Bones, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Exy (All For The Game), Gun Violence, Ichirou is terrifying, Jean's deal is up, M/M, Russian Roulette, certainly not me, i guess?, who knows what this is</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:09:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The car pulls up in front of the stadium, and there are at least a dozen men in suits there waiting--all with wires in their ears. The second the car stops, there’s a man opening the door and another pulling him out, and a third at his back. They box him in so there’s no room to run, and Jean grits his teeth, but follows.</p><p>It’s overkill. </p><p>He’s always been a sheep.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Je ne veux pas di</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ummm....I blame this entirely on 1 Russian Twitter user who had a great idea and *insert name here* </p><p>Have fun, y'all.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s in the semi-final match that everything goes to hell.</p><p>Jean goes down hard, head snapping back against the plexiglass wall and body crumpling to the floor. The full body check isn’t unexpected.</p><p>The audible snap of bone is.</p><p>Everything is the bad kind of fuzzy, the concussion kind of fuzzy, and he shakes his head, trying to clear the rush of sound from his ears, which is a terrible idea because now he’s choking back nausea.</p><p>“Jean?” Someone yells.</p><p>There’s a crackle over the intercom system, and he can vaguely makeout the sportscasters chatter; Moreau, #3, down, hard, down.</p><p>“Jean!”</p><p>Anders is in his face now, fingers clutching the grate of his helmet and pulling it free. She’s swimming in his vision, and he tries to push her away, but oh, there, the snap, <em>there’s</em> the pain. For just a second, Jean clenches his teeth tight against it. Then he spits out his mouth guard, leans over, and pukes on the shiny stadium floor.</p><p>“Fuck,” Anders says. “Concussed? Get coach. Jean?”</p><p>“Bien,” he groans. “Je vais bien--”</p><p>“Fuck,” Anders says again.</p><p>He blinks and the game stops.</p><p>He blinks and Coach is right next to him saying something about a stretcher and an ambulance.</p><p>He blinks and he’s on a stretcher.</p><p>His head hurts. Jean is used to pain, and he’s used to playing through just about anything, but fuck his head hurts.</p><p>His arm hurts more.</p><p>***</p><p>Day 1. Comminuted fracture. Six pieces of bone. Surgery, three-month healing period, orthopedic therapy.</p><p>Likelihood of full recovery worthy of a Pro-Exy career: Less than 1%</p><p>The doctor delivers the news while Jean is high on morphine for the pain. He’s pretty sure he smiles at her, because smiling feels really good. Coach pops in the next day, and sits across from him in bed and pats at his leg, and says, “We’ll get you back in the game, you just take all the time you need.”</p><p>Jean smiles at him too because they haven’t cut the pain relievers down.</p><p>On Day 2, surgery goes easy. Something about pins that will be removed in a few weeks, and a metal plate and screws that will be more permanent.</p><p>“Won’t get through any metal detectors anymore!” The doctor jokes.</p><p><em>Won’t have to</em>, Jean thinks. <em>They’re going to kill me.</em></p><p>Because they will. He’s meant to make money for the Moriyamas. He owes 80% of his earnings for an entire professional career. Entire pro careers last 15 years. He’s been at it 2. The deficit is exactly the worth of a human life if that human’s name is Jean Moreau.</p><p>Jeremy calls on Day 3.</p><p>“I saw it,” he says somberly. “Fuck, Jean. I saw you go down, and there was nothing I could do about it, and it just fucking sucks. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Jean says. He’s not smiling anymore. They cut his morphine this morning and he’s only got prescription dose ibuprofen in its place. Nothing is funny.</p><p>“Does it hurt? What’s your recovery plan? Coach Pletzky is doing everything for you he can, yeah? When Amira dislocated her shoulder last year, our specialist was working with her within 24 hours, and she ended up making a full recovery…”</p><p>And just like that, Jeremy is back to being Captain, planning every possible option for Jean with a bright Jeremy smile on his face. Jean listens, because Jeremy means well. He really does. And he wants to see him one last time before--</p><p>“I tried to beg off, but we have a game on Friday so the earliest I can get out there is Saturday afternoon,” Jeremy is saying.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Jean says. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“No, I really want to see you--”</p><p>“I’ll fly to you,” Jean says, squeezing his eyes closed. His heart is starting to beat loud enough that he can hear it in his ears. It’s sickening--most of his head swelling has gone down, but he’s still struggling with noise.</p><p>“No, you don’t have to--”</p><p>“I’ll fly to you, Jeremy,” Jean says, even though he won’t. He chews on his lower lip hard enough that it starts to bleed. There’s a long moment of silence. Then,</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>They don’t talk much after that. It’s been two years since USC, one year since their last kiss, seven months since Jeremy transferred to Boston, seven weeks since their last phone call. When they hang up, Jean pushes the call button and begs the nurse for more painkillers.</p><p>They bring him two codeine pills.</p><p>It’s not enough.</p><p>***</p><p>On Day 4, the Moriyamas come for him.</p><p>The nurse helps him pack up his things and tells him there’s a limo waiting downstairs. Coach doesn’t show up again. No one from his team calls.</p><p>He knows what this means.</p><p>It’s easy enough to slip back into constant fear--he’s known it for so much of his life. The man driving doesn’t say a word as Jean tucks into the back seat, holding his right arm close to his chest. The cast is bulky and goes from his wrist up to his elbow. His skin is already itching horribly underneath it, and the pain is a constant thing--a slow, roiling burn that never disappears. Jean pops a codeine pill. Then he pops three more because he has a week’s worth and if he doesn’t take them now, they’ll just go to waste.</p><p>The drive to West Virginia takes a little over twenty-two hours and Jean doesn’t sleep one minute of it. He can’t stop watching the landscape as it turns from Texas dry, to Appalachian green. Every tree is beautiful. The sky is beautiful. The road is beautiful. He didn’t appreciate it enough, he got too comfortable--</p><p>He can’t breathe.</p><p>He tries to suck in a breath but it doesn’t come, and then he tries to suck in another and his chest hurts, and he throws his head in between his legs because that’s supposed to help, and he counts to 100 in French because that’s supposed to help, and he counts backwards from 100 in French because that’s supposed to help too and it doesn’t.</p><p>He’s going to die.</p><p>They’re going to kill him.</p><p>And for all his years spent in the Nest, knowing it’s his fate, waiting for it every day, wanting it…</p><p>He’s scared.</p><p>Evermore is just as cadaverous as ever. It rises from the mountainous landscape with it’s bleak stone spires and its black flags. For all the media circus around Riko’s death, and Josten’s mafia ties, Evermore had maintained it’s supremacy in collegiate Exy and was still putting out top ranked athletes every year. Jean was supposed to be one of them.</p><p>Until now.</p><p>The car pulls up in front of the stadium, and there are at least a dozen men in suits there waiting--all with wires in their ears. The second the car stops, there’s a man opening the door and another pulling him out, and a third at his back. They box him in so there’s no room to run, and Jean grits his teeth, but follows.</p><p>It’s overkill. He’s always been a sheep.</p><p>They ride up the elevator, and one of the men presses against his ear, then says something in clipped Japanese. <em>On our way,</em> Jean makes out. Then something unintelligible. The man looks at him with a frown, and Jean looks back down at his feet.</p><p>He’s wearing black Adidas sneakers. He has about twenty pairs back in Texas because they endorsed him six months ago. The boxes keep showing up at his doorstep every couple of weeks. Who knew shoes had models?</p><p>These ones have the logo in crimson, and a matching crimson line that runs around the toe. Whoever had brought him a change of clothes at the hospital probably thought nothing of it, but the symbolism is hard to ignore.</p><p>Once a Raven, always a Raven.</p><p>At least black doesn’t show blood.</p><p>The elevator dings, someone pushes Jean from behind, and he steps out. They walk down a single hallway with black marble floor and sconce lights that glitter crystal, all the way to the door at the end of the hall. One of the men pulls open the door. Jean steps inside.</p><p>Ichirou is waiting.</p><p>He says nothing, so Jean ducks his head down and waits. His arm is itching unbearably, and he meant to take more of the pills in the car, but he got nervous, and forgot, and fuck, that was a mistake. His head is pounding from a days worth of no sleep, but even though the lights are dim in the room, everything is just a little too sharp, a little too focused.</p><p>Ichirou doesn’t move.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jean finally murmurs, staring down at the red Persian carpet he’s standing on.</p><p>“I did not ask you to speak.”</p><p>Jean flinches. His throat is starting to tighten. His broken arm burns, and his good arm hangs at his side, fingers tense and desperate to curl into a fist. Too many years of fighting back have destroyed him.</p><p>He was always meant for this.</p><p>“I’m disappointed,” Ichirou says. “You were meant to be an investment.”</p><p>Jean swallows, but does not speak.</p><p>Ichirou steps closer, close enough that Jean can see the perfect white of his leather shoes, close enough that he can smell the cigarette he just smoked. “Answer me.”</p><p><em>I want to live</em>, Jean thinks.<em> I don’t want to die</em>. He’s starting to suck in breath again, and his ears are buzzing.</p><p>“Moreau.” Ichirou barks.</p><p>Jean takes in another breath, and his fingers finally curl at his side. “I can still play,” he forces out. “I...I am still…”</p><p>“Worth something?” Ichirou gives a little laugh, then starts walking, circling Jean like the predator he is. “What was it...less than 1% chance of regaining motor function comparable to before? You have always been one to play the odds, but I think that even this might be too much…”</p><p>“I can coach,” Jean gasps out. “I can...Kevin did...I’ll--”</p><p>“You are not Kevin.” Ichirou stops in front of Jean again, then reaches out and snags a fist through Jean’s hair, pulling his head to the side. “You have always been less than Kevin.”</p><p>“Yes sir,” Jean murmurs, closing his eyes.</p><p>He doesn’t have pride.</p><p>He’s never had pride.</p><p>He’s worthless.</p><p>He’s nothing.</p><p>“Here,” Ichirou says.</p><p>Jean’s eyes flash open as the gun is pressed against his palm. He tries to take a step back, but Ichirou’s fingers just tighten in his hair and he pulls Jean close enough that his lips brush against Jean’s ear.</p><p>“Don’t move.”</p><p>Jean freezes. He can hear his own heartbeat, and he can hear every breath Ichirou takes. Somewhere, there is the ticking of a clock, <em>tock, tock, tock</em>. He tries to even his breaths to the rhythm but he can’t.</p><p>“Take it,” Ichirou murmurs.</p><p>The metal of the gun is cold against his fingers, and it’s so much heavier than he’d imagined a gun might be, and he’s…</p><p>He’s never held a gun.</p><p>He’s done so much damage in his life. Riko was a nightmare, but Jean was his tool. Jean held knives against players, he’d held down boys who cried, he’d destroyed whatever Riko wanted destroyed, but he’d never held a gun.</p><p>Jean tries to swallow but nothing is working right.</p><p>“Calm down, beautiful,” Ichirou breathes. Then he steps back and motions towards his head. “Right at your temple.”</p><p>“I…” Jean closes his eyes. He can’t do this. There were moments in his life that he wanted to die, but now there’s sky, and there’s life, and there’s Jeremy, and fuck, he can’t breath again, it’s worse this time, his hand’s shaking so hard the gun is tapping against his thigh.</p><p>“You disobey?” Ichirou asks.</p><p>His voice is still so mild. So effortless.</p><p>Jean has never been effortless. He raises the gun to his own head. The barrel is cold against his temple. He doesn’t know how to pull the trigger, his pointer finger isn’t in the right place, his thumb is strained, it hurts, his other arm hurts, breathing hurts, he doesn’t want to die.</p><p>“Je ne veux pas di,” he stutters. Riko never let him speak French, but Ichirou just smiles.</p><p>“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Ichirou says.</p><p>“Please,” Jean whispers. He squeezes his eyes closed as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He’s been tortured for less.</p><p>But this isn’t torture.</p><p>This is a death sentence.</p><p>“You’re a beautiful boy.”</p><p>Jean blinks, and his eyes are wet. He blinks, and Jeremy is kissing him, mouth warm, body pressed tight against Jeans, willing to forgive anything. He blinks, and Riko is there instead, and Jean is worthless.</p><p>“Time,” Ichirou says.</p><p>Jean can’t do it. His hand is shaking, and his knees are ready to give out, and he’d give anything for another chance. “Please,” he says again.</p><p>Ichirou’s eyes narrows, and his smile snakes across his face. “There’s always your family.”</p><p>Jean pulls the trigger.</p><p>There’s a hollow clack of sound as the barrel engages, then nothing.</p><p>He drops to his knees, trying to breath, trying to draw enough air into his chest that’s bursting with pressure. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until he hears Ichirou start to laugh.</p><p>Someone comes up from behind him and takes the gun, and Jean curls in on himself, pressing his head to his knees. He’s crying, and he doesn’t want to be, but he can’t think past the sound of the gun against his head, and he misses Jeremy, and he misses his team, and he just wants to <em>live</em>.</p><p>Ichirou kicks him with one perfect boot. “Up,” he orders.</p><p>Jean gasps in a breath, then pushes himself up with his good hand until back on his knees. He tries to stand, but Ichirou pushes him down again. “Do you understand what you’ve cost me?” he says with a smile.</p><p>“Yes,” Jean says. He reaches a hand up to wipe at his eyes, but Ichirou slaps it away.</p><p>“Would you like to play again?”</p><p>He doesn’t mean Exy. He means...that...the gun...Jean sucks in a breath, then looks down at his knees. “Master,” he says.</p><p>The word tastes foul now that it’s been absent so long.</p><p>The clock ticks. One of the security guards in the corner of Jean’s vision shuffles. Jean’s still crying, he can’t help it, and the sound he’s making is pathetic.</p><p>He hates himself.</p><p>“This will be entertaining,” Ichirou finally says. “You either get back out on that court and bring me my money, or next time the chambers will be full.” Then he turns and walks towards the door.</p><p>Jean hears it open.</p><p>He hears it close.</p><p>He tucks his head down and sucks in air, and tries to stop crying, and watches the red Persian carpet.</p><p>No one else moves.</p><p> </p>
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